Suicide




Sad crystal flesh intangible to the crowd.
A light that shines like a lying breast.
Here by the moon my voice is truthful.
Listen to me gone quiet though the blade drowns you.

    I was that young man who one day
leaving the depths of his eyes
 sought truthful fish
 he could not see through his hands.

    Hands of eight mountains,
confabulation of stone,
pain of blood in cliff face
insensible to the teeth.

    Under the stars on point
there are screams that approach.
Under my coiled heart
mute tongues explode.

    Open the world to me, open;
I want to illuminate just a kiss,
some lips that irritate
heartless trees.

    There are hanging legs
sheltered by birds.
Come strange bridges
that tie together two muscles.

    An expiring shock
utters its unusual voice
and the feet by the torsos
aspire to the cup.

    Lights of the armpits, lights,
lights in the form of ankles,
and that narrow waist
that pierces the moon.

    The eyes are caresses of the wind,
they are a pain that will be forgotten shortly,
so the hairs will know how to speak slowly,
now that they fall over an ultimate hearing.

    Hearts with wings, nubile elbows,
that oppression that moves sweetly
a music birthed of the back.
The ignorance is the rubbing of two newborn chests.

    Oh seas that don’t exist under roots,
trees sustained over mouths that throb,
eyes that advance on the sky when low,
when over foreheads ideas are fingers.

    Blood in the cliffs, blood through the shocks,
branches that from their pulses grow toward voices,
body that hangs in the wind now without limitations,
wounded by tongues that suck its ants.



   

Vicente Aleixandre